


May Your Ashes Become Violets and Roses

by lafillechanceuse



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Forehead Touching, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Necromancy, Qunari Culture and Customs, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tevinter Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8745886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafillechanceuse/pseuds/lafillechanceuse
Summary: Dorian Pavus celebrates his first Funalis away from home while The Iron Bull struggles with his newfound identity of Tal Vashoth.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityfails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityfails/gifts).



> Hi, readers! I usually save all the good stuff where I talk about the fic for the end, and I have. However, I don't know who's reading this, so I just want to take the time now to give you a heads up. 
> 
> One of the major themes this piece is about is death and one of the scenes in this fic deals with a corpse being prepared for burial and cremated. It's not gory or super detailed, but it is matter of fact about the reality of handling a dead body that's been lying unattended to for a while. If this squicks you out, I suggest you stop reading at "He ran smack into the Bull’s outstretched arm," and resume at “I could say a few words.” You'll miss some minor world building, but if you ask for what you missed in a comment, I can paste it into a reply sans corpse so you can read it. Thanks for reading!

Skyhold bustled with activity, Funalis close at hand.

A solemn holiday at the best of times, the weeks approaching it carried a greater weight this year. Despite specializing in necromancy for the better part of his life, Dorian had never felt more surrounded by death until he went south. Haven, omnipresent and fresh in everyone’s minds, lay fallow, the memorial still in its early stages of planning.  The Bull’s Chargers recovered what they could, but when they returned to Skyhold with the whole Inquisition watching, no stragglers had joined their ranks.

The Iron Bull seemed distant. Faded, a fainter version of himself. Hardly unusual considering the Inquisition’s thorough shattering of the Qunari’s attempt at an alliance, but Dorian wondered at the slight crack in his normally nonchalant, jovial façade that a body could bounce diamonds off of. Despite the magnitude of the tumultuous events that isolated them in the heights of the Frostbacks, the Bull’s stalwart presence had never faltered. The Chargers exhibited that same disciplined cheerfulness, but several nights ago, he had caught Dalish, Stitches, and Krem exchanging worried glances while talking in hushed voices out of the corner of his eye. Dorian had discreetly sent them another round before being drawn into Varric’s latest game of Wicked Grace.

“He’d get like this every now and again,” Stitches confided to him later, the two of them sharing a bottle of wine in the corner while Rocky and Dalish gave the tavern a rousing rendition of ‘The Canary’s Soggy Biscuit’ accompanied by cheers. “Chief broods in his own way. He pushes it all down most of the time, so when it springs up, it takes us by surprise. Certain days, he’d be out of his head half the time and put Grim to shame with how quiet he was. Anniversaries of things that happened over there, but they’re not my stories to tell. I think it was easier when he knew he could go back, eventually. He wouldn’t have to face us or him getting hurt despite everything he did to keep us out of their reach.”

He sipped his wine surprisingly delicately for a Fereldan.

“Doesn’t have that luxury anymore.”

Dorian topped up his glass.

“Indeed.”  

“There’s just one thing.”

Stitches leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

“Why’re you asking about him?”

Automatically, Dorian drew himself up.

“We work together. I thought it would be prudent to know if I should be concerned.”

“You talk really posh when you want to hide something, hothouse,” Stitches said cheerfully. Dorian leveled him with the haughty, frigid glare that struck fear into the hearts of men, but Stitches was made of sterner stuff than the older schoolboys at the Tevene Circles he attended and met his gaze, immune.

“Is it about…you know.”

Stitches raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I don’t follow.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate your concern. I founded this company with him and Dalish, you know. Chief’s had a lot of people in his bed, but none of them have ever looked after him the way he looked after them. Not until you.”

Dorian pursed his lips. He hardly expected The Iron Bull to hide himself from the world, but he deferred to Dorian regarding the boundaries of their relationship. Half the time, they were too busy with their mouths to sit down and talk. Deep down, though he knew the significance of their time spent together had solidified into something unshakeable, and the Bull did, too. 

“And how would you know why am I different from all the rest?”

“How he touches you,” Stitches said easily. “Like how he touches the haft of his axe to reassure himself it’s there.”

Taking a deep breath, his hackles eased as he exhaled. This was not Tevinter, Dorian reminded himself, and he was just as concerned about Dorian’s wellbeing as he was about the Bull’s health and happiness.

“I do hope you’re not intending to threaten me with irreversible bodily harm should I be foolish enough to hurt him.”

Stitches looked genuinely taken aback.

“Have they tried to? I told them the chief can handle himself just fine.”

“No, no,” Dorian reassured him. “Nothing of the sort.”

“Good. Tell me if they do and I’ll sort it out.”

He set his jaw and finished his wine.

“We don’t meddle.”

“You mean you keep them from meddling.”

“You haven’t been interesting enough to meddle yet,” Stitches said drily and for the first time since the letter from his father and subsequent visit to Redcliffe, Dorian laughed so hard he nearly broke a rib.

They left for the Exalted Plains the following morning on Toril’s orders. Flanked by her and Sera, Dorian covered Cassandra as they fought through scores of undead to lay the ramparts and Victory Rise to rest. His mana frayed at the edges, his senses rankled by the clear violation of the spirits bound within the rotting bodies. No matter how many prayers were said on their behalf or handfuls of cinnamon and cassia were tossed into the flames to burn, the spirits would linger on and haunt the battlegrounds.

“War can go piss up a rope,” Sera declared as they made camp at the end of the day, kicking at some stray gravel on the road. “All these people who died for nothing worth dyin’ for. It ain’t right. Any of it.”

“It’s shit,” Toril agreed, Cassandra murmuring her assent. “At least they don’t have to fight any more.”  

She turned to him.

“Dorian, you said someone had done this on purpose. Will the incense help lay them to rest?”

“To be perfectly honest, your guess is as good as mine. I’m not overly familiar with Orlesian death rituals beyond the traditional raiments of an Andrastrian funeral in the South, but it is an acknowledgment of their suffering. The incense eases their senses, making their current state more bearable. I don’t possibly see how it could hurt.”

Lower lip held between his teeth, his fingers traced the whorls of the pattern carved into the cypress staff.  

“Finding the enchanter in question is of paramount importance. Due to the trauma of being yanked through the Veil and imprisoned in…well, flesh prisons, the spirits are forced to stay. Once their captor dies, they can truly rest.”

Setting her jaw, Toril nodded. He left her to set up wards along the perimeter of the camp while she and the others wrangled the tents into submission. Sera started a fire while he and Cassandra fetched water. Settling himself against a nearby rock, Dorian leaned back on his elbows and stared out at the horizon. Cassandra ambled over, lowering herself gracefully to sit beside him, setting her book by his atop the boulder.  

“Dorian.”

She said as they watched the sunset.

“We are friends, are we not?”

“I don’t tell friends the story about the Templar with the feathers and the grapes.”

Cassandra laughed lightly, then sobered.

“Your friend Felix. I would like to light a candle for him this year, if you would allow it.”

“Oh.”

Dorian fumbled for a proper response, but she barreled past his tied tongue.

“I did not know how many dead you care for at this time of year and I wanted to be considerate. A traditional Nevarran Funalis is not quite as elaborate as what you are accustomed to, but I firmly believe the trappings do not matter if the sentiment is from the heart. If there is anyone else, I would be more than happy to offer my prayers to the Maker for them to ascend to His side.”

“Even Alexius?”

He flinched when Cassandra laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.

“I may not be able to comprehend the extent of His forgiveness, but I am certain he would not deny your mentor absolution. I will pray for the trouble of his soul to be eased that he may ascend as well.”

Dorian swallowed hard.

“I…thank you.”

Cassandra clucked her tongue and patted his shoulder.

“Forgiveness is hard work, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Yes.”

Pink, yellow, and orange stained the horizon before the colors deepened and twilight crept across the plains in earnest. If he squinted, Dorian could see the faint outline of the second moon in the distance.   

“Cassandra.”

“Yes?”

Tentatively, he touched her shoulder. She stiffened, but did not slap his hand away.

“Your apprentice, your comrades, your brother. May I light candles for them as well?”

Eyes wide, she closed them and after a deep breath, exhaled.

“Yes. Thank you.”

* * *

 

 The next morning, Toril prepared them for another jaunt to the Emerald Graves. Sera spat on the ground when told she would stay. Cassandra merely nodded. Dorian would be returning home in exchange for Blackwall. Once he returned to Skyhold, he would be tasked with studying the enchantments placed upon the undead they had fought and how to best break them. He would confer with Vivienne and Dagna as necessary until they found a viable solution. He left, accompanied by a group of scouts shortly after the briefing in order to leave the Exalted Plains by nightfall.  

“All right, big guy?”

The Iron Bull greeted him good-naturedly a week later at the foot of the Frostbacks. While the scouts swapped information, he checked the bronto’s harness, gently bumping his hip against Dorian’s as he passed. Stitches’ words fresh in his mind, Dorian rubbed briefly against the Bull’s side as he slipped in beside him to adjust one of the parcels on the bronto’s back.

“Considerably improved. What are you doing here?”

“Needed some air. The caravans keep breaking down here, so we came to check for stragglers. You ready to head up?”  

“Lead the way.”

Bidding the scouts goodbye and handing off the Inquisitor’s orders to Charter, the two of them began the trek up the mountain.

“So, how was…”

Dorian sighed deeply.

“That bad, huh?”

“There’s no end to them. I’ve been assigned to get to the bottom of it. We can’t magically dampen an area that large and even if we could acquire the resources, they would kill us before we even started.”

The Iron Bull nodded, reaching over to gently squeeze his shoulder.

“I figured as much. You’ll do a good job, though. If anyone can do it, you can.”  

He squinted at one of Dorian’s pouches.

“You know you’ve got crap on your ass, though.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Dorian seized on it, grateful for the distraction.

“The book. Don’t tell me you spent gold on that translation.”

“And what would you know about Antivan poetry?”  

“I know I wouldn’t wipe my ass with anything Brother Ronflant wrote about it.”

“He was one of the first translators of _Cantar de la Ascensión_. I hardly think his opinion should be discarded.”

“He says his poems are history, but he never contextualizes the political circumstances of the text. You look at his epic about Queen Asha’s rise to power with actual accounts at hand, it doesn’t hold water.”

“But it’s still technically history if you treat it as literature because you can see what the general public thought of the—“

He ran smack into the Bull’s outstretched arm.

At the foot of the pass lay a Qunari dressed in traditional Fereldan garb. Sprawled across the path, one hand clutching his chest, his neck was twisted at an odd angle, spine curled in on himself.

A pilgrim, so near and yet too far.  

The Iron Bull knelt, reaching out to close his eyes.

“Poor bastard.”

He said it almost tenderly, shifting the limbs to a more comfortable position.

“Indeed.”

Dorian knelt with him.

“Help me turn him over.”

They wrestled the body onto its side to examine him further. 

“Frost bitten, but no gangrene,” Dorian noted.

“Oh, we’d know if he had gangrene,” the Bull said wryly as they settled him on his back again, the corner of his lip twitching into a grim smirk. “That’s not a smell you ever forget. I’m not seeing any wounds or poison and looking at his clothes, I don’t think he was near anyone who would want to kill him for a while. My guess is his heart stopped. The climb up the Frostbacks here isn’t one for the fainthearted.”

Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket and wetting it with water from the skein on his hip, he gently wiped off the other Qunari’s face. Methodically, he lifted the corpse’s left arm, washing it as best he could.

Dorian gently riffled through the pockets of the tattered clothes.  

“No personal effects. I don’t get the impression he’s Andrastrian and I would hate to assume.”

“Yeah. Better not.”   

“Where do I start, then?”

“Check his pack. A weapon, a tool, what he kept closest to him.”

Dorian rummaged through the bag until his hand grasped a small, smooth object with streaks of…was that hair? Carefully withdrawing it, he offered it to Bull, the white braid wrapped around the carved obsidian glinting in the cold grey light.

“Is this--?”   

The Bull cradled the stone in his hands, expression unreadable.

“Aban barek.”

He said finally, wrapping it in a handkerchief and tucking it away in the safety of his pocket.

“Not what we’re looking for, but worth saving.”

“If we trade places, I can wash his chest,” said Dorian. “I think you know what to look for better than I do.”

Prying away the layers of armor, the Bull winced at the smell emanating from the stomach.

“It’s messy.”

“ _I’m_ messy,” Dorian reminded him gently. “The Mortalitasi favor a very involved approach. I’ve spent the better part of my life washing corpses. A little rotting tissue will hardly give me the vapors.”

“All right.”

The Bull acquiesced.  

They worked in silence, a spare set of clothes neatly folded beside Dorian while he cleaned the body and did his best to render it presentable. The Iron Bull withdrew a saucer, a knitting pick, and a knife. Gazing at them intently, he nodded at the weaver’s tool and muttered something to himself in Qunlat before reaching into his own pack. Dorian recognized the red cloth rope, the roll he had gently been shooed away from a fortnight ago. The Bull placated him without saying why, agreeing he would wear it well and kissing away his protests until Dorian, drunk on affection, insistently tugged him down to bed.

With his pocket knife, The Iron Bull carefully cut off a few long locks of hair off the corpse and knotted them into the cord with a practiced hand. He wrapped the braid around the knitting pick in intricate patterns, the loops and whirls mimicking the more detailed patterns of the vitaar he wore in battle. The smooth, adept movement of his fingers was almost hypnotic. Fascinated but doing his best to be respectful, Dorian struck a balance between focusing on washing the weaver’s body and watching him out of the corner of his eye. Still, this reminded him of how little he actually knew of the life the Bull had led before they met each other beyond their instinctive national sniping about stereotypes he was now certain were Tevene propaganda to keep the disenfranchised from embracing the Qun with open arms.

“Does the stone go in the saucer?”

He blurted out without realizing it.

“Yes,” the Bull answered heavily and said no more.

They dressed him together, wrestling his limbs and torso into complying. With a spare brush Dorian offered that looked ridiculous in the Bull’s large hands, they groomed his hair.

“I could say a few words.”  

Dorian offered.

“Nondenominational, of course.”

The Iron Bull grunted, jerking his chin in a nod. Dorian inhaled a shallow breath, and opened his mouth.

“ _No_ ,” The Iron Bull snapped. “Not like _that_.”

Months ago, he would have retaliated. A comeback formed in the back of his mind, slipping to the tip of his tongue, ready to deploy. If not for the lost look in his companion’s eye, it would have been all too easy to let it go.

For the second time in his life, Dorian saw The Iron Bull floundering and extended a hand.

“Where do I start, then?”  

“Here.”

Taking his hand, The Iron Bull centered Dorian’s palm on his chest, over his heart.

“It has to come from here.”

He took a deep breath and began.

In his youth, Dorian Pavus had read about the Qun. Like most young rebellious Tevinter alti, he considered it for a moment and discarded it when he found it incompatible with his sense of entitlement the house of Pavus entrenched in him from birth. Why perform that level of self-denial learned at his father’s knee without any of the benefits? The terribly dull propaganda did it no favors, either. He had cast the matter aside without a second thought. If you sacrificed that much of yourself, you might as well enjoy your life with what was left of you. 

Now, Dorian marveled at the resonance beneath his fingers, the sheer primal rhythm of the words. They rang deep in The Iron Bull’s chest, as if he had pulled them from the earth and shaped them to drown out the world and hold them there for the space of a moment. Dwarfed by the immense, all-encompassing sound of his voice, Dorian could only stand there and watch. The tips of his fingers curled into the hollow of the Bull’s collarbone, seeking. The connection between them and their surroundings thrummed in his chest, almost electric, the way thunder built before an oncoming storm. He could find joy in this, despite the solemnity of the occasion, a joy in feeling every particle of the universe around them, of the cadence of Bull’s voice beating in time with the heart of the many. 

Then, he quieted, and for the first time, Dorian truly comprehended what he had lost.

“We need to build a pyre. Lay him to rest out of the wind.”

“Of course.”

The Iron Bull cradled the body tenderly in his arms as they climbed the mountain path, sequestering themselves in a cave. Dorian piled dry wood high, but let him direct how to build the framework until they had erected a satisfactory pyre. With a spark from their tinder and a handful of Dorian’s incense thrown into the flames, the fire burned in earnest, smoke billowing out of the cave’s entrance. The two of them sat together on the ground in front of it and watched the body.

“You’ve heard it before.”

The Bull broke the silence.

“The prayers for the dead. I could see the first word on your lips.”

“I read it in a book once. Yours was…longer than I expected.”

“Oh, that translation.”

He snorted.

“Not that I expect much. There was an Orlesian—a bard, who barely wrote about us and yet, he had a better grasp on our culture and language than any professor or Chantry scholar I ever came across.”

“From what I recall, he mostly concerned himself with your swear words,” said Dorian drily.

The Iron Bull chuckled. To anyone’s ears, it would have sounded genuine.

“The good stuff.”

“So, you learned the prayers for death as part of your education?”

“We all do. Priests and tamassrans know them better than others because they study it or teach it. Generally a priest gets called when someone dies, but on the battlefield, we usually did it ourselves.”

He stretched, then leaned back against the cave wall.

“I knew them, but I couldn’t do it from memory. Not until I rose up in the ranks.”

“How often did you perform the rites?”

“A couple times a month. When I advanced—“

The Iron Bull quieted and stared out at the horizon.

“Every day. Every damn day.”  

Voice cracking, his hands clenched, the two stubs on his left hand twitching in a way that indicated an old, familiar ache.

When the storm picked up outside, they bedded down at the back of the cave. Dorian dragged the Bull over him like a great duvet. Surprised, the Bull acquiesced reluctantly, tilting his horn to one side so he could lie atop Dorian’s chest comfortably.

“I wasn’t looking for sympathy—“

“I know.”

“That’s just how it was.”

“I know.”

Dorian pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Disquieted, the Bull resisted the urge to fidget.

“It’s all right.”

The word amatus lingered on Dorian’s lips, but he swallowed it down. They lay there quietly, Dorian gently stroking the back of the Bull’s neck until he spoke again.

“The prayers are part of the Soul Canto. The purpose of the world renewing itself when the seasons change, the sea and the sky above marking it as part of the greater whole. Nothing special. Only pieces.”

He stared up at the ceiling of the tent.

“I liked knowing my place. Now, I’m not even a piece.”

“Why the stone in the saucer?”

Dorian prodded gently.

“Safety. You put it in water with a pinch of dirt every night until you know your kadan is out of danger.”

“So, this is a smaller version used for travel and a bigger one would sit on a mantelpiece.”

“Yeah.”

The Bull rubbed a hand over his face. 

“You braid the hair in different ways to ask for different things. Mostly safe travels and safe childbirth, but luck, prosperity, hope, temperance, all that crap, they have their patterns as well. The more layers they have, the longer you’ve known that person. My tama…probably still has mine. Layered from when I was imekari until I saw her before I was reassigned for the last time.”

“Do the Vashoth and Tal Vashoth practice it?” 

“Depends on how far they’re removed from the Qun.”

“It must be terribly alienating to be surrounded by Andriastrians.”  

“I like the festivals all right. Least that way I can pretend they’re parties and they don’t have to mean something. Most of the Orlesians I’ve met treated it that way. I know their Chant better than some.”

He fidgeted. Dorian relented, letting him go to turn on his side without commenting on the carefully controlled breaths or the wet patch against the side of his neck. The Bull lay down on his back and tugged him up onto his chest.

“So, who made your pretty hands wash corpses?”

“Ah, yes. My education.”

Fluffing his hair with both hands, Dorian puffed himself up, a gentle mockery of his station. Without fail, the Bull cracked the slightest hint of a smile. Heartened, with a dashing grin, he swept one hand out into the darkness and declaimed.  

“Enchanter Perterreo lurked about the classroom the same way he skulked through the crypts at night to return to the coffin he slept in. Struck the fear of the Maker into many an apprentice. We prepared the bodies from the city morgue, mostly laetans and slaves with a handful of soporati. On rare occasions when we received a particularly high born corpse, he would suffocate us with his scrutiny. He constantly lectured that death was the only true friend to the poor, the grand leveler, grim and fatalistic to a fault.”

Dorian shifted to rest his chin on the Bull’s chest, then raised his head.

“I’m sure he changed his mind when he was assassinated.”

Lazily, the Bull raked his fingernails over Dorian’s lower back to watch him shiver.   

“Did he really sleep in a coffin?”

“Pure conjecture, but I would hardly be surprised. Tevinter eccentricities are not for the faint of heart.”

“What was he murdered over?”

“Teaching position. A fellowship in Nevarra.”

The Bull delicately arched a brow.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I would never,” Dorian murmured, lips a breath away from his.

The kiss twined them together, Dorian’s right leg thrown haphazardly over the Bull’s hip. They lay there contentedly, exploring each other’s mouths while the storm raged outside. Gradually, Dorian felt the tension ease out of the Bull’s body. He kissed the side of his head, nuzzling against his neck.

“You should recite Antivan poetry for me. Did you always know it?”

“I picked it up when I was preparing for the gap year in my service. They rotated you out after four years on Seheron to hold off asala-taar. I was hoping I’d get Antiva, but they sent me to a magister who had family there that liked to code messages into particular stanzas. Never really got to show it off.”  

“That sounds terribly disappointing.”

“Wasn’t a high point in my life, but I found my fun where I could. You know the white birds with the yellow crests who like to cuddle, right? Well, he took a shine to them when he traveled to Seheron and had his slaves capture one from its flock as a pet. Poor thing was lonely as shit. I used to whistle at it when I’d pass and smuggle treats from time to time.”

“You seem very familiar with their habits for someone who didn’t work with animals,” Dorian noted.

“I was stationed in Alam’s port when the Ben Hassrath tried to use them as messenger birds.”

The Iron Bull said, poker faced, and Dorian choked on his laughter. The Bull chuckled despite himself before continuing, without the forced cheerfulness of the grim jokes he had made earlier.

“Ravens drew too much attention from the locals because they were imported, but none of the other birds were intelligent enough to pull it off. It’s hard for a member of the Beresaad to look intimidating when there’s a large, fluffy bird chirping and grooming your hair with its beak.”

Dorian covered his mouth with one hand and the Bull laughed into his shoulder.

“So anyway, it latched onto me. He took it out to show off to his guests one night, and it flew over his head and perched on my shoulder. He was furious. At his country estate a week later, he decided that he didn’t need a Qunari bodyguard after all to protect him, impress his friends, and strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. Unfortunately for him, that was the night we were set to raid.”

“Did the bird warn you in time for a daring escape?”

“Nah, but it set up a racket when my kith snuck down the stairs. We got there before he could turn around. Gave me a little time to submit some paperwork before I went back to Seheron about some obscure passages the priests had told me about once.”  

He gave Dorian the smuggest grin he had ever seen. 

“I gave that bird the highest honors bestowed upon anyone under the Qun and not even the Ariqun could argue with me. As far as I know, it’s still living out the rest of its days like a prince. ”

They laughed themselves sick. When they finally calmed down, the fire had burned low. Reluctantly leaving the warmth of their bedrolls, the two of them swept the ashes from the frame and gathered them up in a small urn.

“We’ll scatter them in the morning,” the Bull said definitively, tucking it away in his pack before they curled up together again. Dorian softly murmured agreement, lips pressed against the side of his neck.

“We should go when this is all over.”

“You mean to Antiva?”

“If we defeat Corypheus and mend the tear in the sky shitting demons out of it, we’ll have more than earned it.”

The Iron Bull chuckled.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“We’ll have a lovely time. We’ll drink wine by the beach, lie in the sun, you’ll feed me grapes…”

“Hey, if I’m your interpreter, you should be feeding me grapes.”

Dorian kissed him.

“So long as you free me from this wretched cold, I’ll do anything you ask.”

“You’re awfully cute in blankets,” The Iron Bull said fondly, returning the favor. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

The week flew by, and he still didn’t feel prepared on the night of Funalis, despite having spent every minute he could spare from the enchantment working on it. Alone in his room save for the company of the howling winds that cut round Skyhold’s corners, Dorian stood in front of the lararium, hands folded in front of him. Clearing his mind of all stray thoughts, he then breathed deeply, a self-taught rhythm to center himself before performing the rites his family would be preparing for.

Inhale, two, three, four, exhale, five, six, seven, and begin.

“Dis manibus, I welcome you here tonight as my honored guests. I offer you food to sate your hunger, I offer you wine to slake your thirst, and I offer you a place at my table for the rest of my days.”

Gesturing to the small desk shoved in the corner of the room felt like offering a pallet on the floor to an elderly, infirm visitor. At least Josephine had understood and procured a decent vintage upon his request. Dorian swallowed hard, ignoring the maelstrom welling up inside him, and pushed onward.

“Sit tibi terra levis.” 

He held the plate of lentils aloft for a moment, eyes closed as he reached out to the Fade, hoping to find the faintest traces of the awe and power he had always associated with his father performing the rites. Nothing. He had no wax masks to call upon his forbearers, no cloaks or heavy robes carefully repaired decade after decade to the point where his mother could claim that one too fragile to wear dated back to Hessarian himself, not even his birthright to offer to the penates to protect. Just a dented travel lararium that had never even belonged to his family, a plate, and a handful of trinkets to show for his grand rebellion, and what good did they do in the end?

“I call to you, you who were not, then were, then are not, and will not return. May your ashes become violets and roses. We are but small souls carrying around a corpse and while you are ashes, ashes are the land. The land is a goddess. Therefore, you are not--”

The formal prayers stuttered and stilled on his lips.

“Oh, Felix.”

He sank to his knees.

“Felix, my oldest, dearest friend, I welcome you, I love you, but I grieve you deeply. You were the best of us. Mae kept a brave face for both of us at your funeral, but I know she feels your absence as keenly as I do. There is not a day where I mourn the absence of your warmth, your smile, your laughter, your wit. The Inquisition would have welcomed you with open arms and with your innumerable talents, you could have thrived here. You would have loved them. They would have loved you.”

He let out a shaky breath that turned into a sob.

“And Alexius—my beloved mentor, one of the best and brightest minds in Tevinter, the father I wished I had. I still don’t understand how you could do this to me…no, to us. You were better than all of us in any measure and I know grief twists the most stalwart pillars of society….but you perverted your thirst for knowledge. Where was your integrity when Corypheus made his offer? You let him ruin us.” 

His tears flowed freely now.

“I trusted you. I loved you. You saved me from my worst vices, and then you threw it all away.”

All the pain and misery of his loneliness, his alienation from loved ones, and the knowledge that he could never really go home again crashed down on Dorian at once. Refusing to process his grief because there was a war on had come back to bite him with a vengeance.

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you, but I could not bear to cast you from my prayers. I remember the man you were. I always will.”

He rested his hands on the lararium.

“Ancestors, what have you done? You brought the Blight upon the world and lied about it for centuries. Not once have I given any credence to the Southern Chantry, but now I ask myself, what other dark secrets you have hidden? Slavery, blood magic, corruption, you gave every person in Thedas a reason to hate us and not once did you consider their suffering. Will that be our legacy? Not our art, our music, our architecture, our contributions to philosophy and culture, but evil? Is that mine to inherit?”    

He slammed his hands down on it.

“I refuse. I know some of you must have fought. I know you must have taken a stand. I will be no different. I will not let the worst of our mistakes be my legacy, or the legacy of our children.”

Vaguely, he remembered getting up, saying the closing prayers, extinguishing the candles but leaving the offerings out to be collected later. Vaguely, he remembered wrapping his cloak about him and stumbling out the door. Head foggy with congestion, still blinded by tears, Dorian allowed his feet to take him where they would. Only once the cold wind hit his face did he come back to himself.  

Where was he?

Getting some air. That was the idea he had. Rubbing his eyes, Dorian looked around. His footsteps had carried him to the Bull’s door. Before he could knock or turn to go, it opened.

“Dorian?”

He opened his mouth, and to his great embarrassment, started to cry again.  

“Hey, hey. I’ve got you.”

Engulfed in the warmth of the Bull’s embrace, he was drawn inside, the door shut behind him.

“Come on in and warm up.”

Gently, he was guided towards the bed. Shoes still on, the Bull tugged him down to lay with him. Dorian sobbed into his shoulder, slightly more aware of the soothing noises coming from the outside world than he had been when he wandered over. Minutes passed before he was able to collect himself. When he sat up, the Bull handed him a cup of water.

“Here. Drink.”

He focused on the texture of the cup, the refreshing coolness of the water, the way it slid down his throat when he swallowed. Gathering his thoughts, Dorian finally lifted his head to face him.

“I didn’t mean to inconvenience—“

“Shh.”

The Bull stroked his hair.

“If you really think this is still about sex, then I need a moment of your time to talk about the Qun.”

Dorian gurgled a laugh.

“See? There you go. I’d forgotten your holiday was tonight. Real change from home, huh?”

“Yes, but not necessarily a bad one, I think.”

Dorian took a few more sips of water.

“In Tevinter, the purpose of Funalis for an altus goes beyond ancestor worship. For the high born, it is a public ritual that demands extravagance. You must be seen, and you must be seen as the best. You do not question your family’s legacy or examine the effect it had on Tevinter as a whole unless they committed a heinous crime their social graces and contributions could not absolve or smooth away.”

“So, no reckoning,” said the Bull. Dorian shook his head.

“None. Celebrating it privately has given me time to…reflect on that among other things. In the wake of finding out that what has been institutionalized in Tevinter as the Southern Chantry’s lies, it is a thing unto its own.”

He finished the water and stared at the Bull plaintively.

“How do I reconcile a lifetime of proud belief in the legacy of my people with the horrors and the pain they inflicted on others in pursuit of their goals?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out, big guy,” the Bull said wearily, leaning back against the headboard.

Kicking off his shoes, Dorian disrobed to a more comfortable state. Back on the bed, he crawled over and straddled the Bull’s lap. Leaning in, kissing the tip of his nose, he rested his forehead against his.

“I can’t say I know exactly what you’re going through, and neither can you for me, but there is a common thread, more so than anyone else here. If we must face this, let’s face it together.”

“Together, then,” the Bull agreed, and they sealed it with a kiss.   

The next morning, Dorian heard the knock on the door. He twined himself about The Iron Bull’s chest in a futile attempt to keep him from leaving the bed and taking the warmth with him. Alas, after a few kisses that purposely sunk him deeper into the bed, the Bull got out to answer the door.

Toril stood outside.

“Got a few minutes?”    

She sat at the Bull’s desk, a large mug of tea in both hands.

“We found where the fucker responsible for the undead’s hiding. Tunnels beneath the Citadelle de Corbeau. Probably an old Deep Roads entrance, if I had to guess. Did you finish researching the enchantment?”

“Yes. It was actually rather straightforward. They were assuming that the sheer volume of undead and the location of their lair, would keep anyone well away from dismantling the framework of the spell.”

“Good. I’m taking you both along with Sera to see this through. You have a plan?”

Dorian steepled the tips of his fingers.

“Yes. I do.”

“You start cackling or twirling your mustache, I’m kicking you out of bed.”

The Iron Bull said cheerfully, setting the kettle on the nightstand and kissing the side of his head.

“No, you won’t,” Toril snorted.

“She’s right. You won’t.”

They decided to leave for the Exalted Plains the next day. After a long, lazy lie-in, Dorian finally wandered down through the tavern and over to the main hall to consult with Dagna one last time.

“You hanging in there, Sparkler?”

Varric asked, looking up from his work.

“Barely.”

Dorian admitted, taking the chair Varric pulled out for him.

He did feel rejuvenated, though. Refreshed, as if something that had broken inside him last night knitted the wounds and made him whole.

Varric nodded.

“The first holiday after someone hurts you’s always the worst.”

He reached under the table.

“I was never one for that ancestor crap, but I know how it clings to you. So, I want to show you something.”

He reached under the table and set a case on top of it. Opening the clasps, he nudged it over so Dorian could see it properly. Surrounded by padded velvet, a jewel-encrusted dagger gleamed in the torch light.  

“We left a lot of things behind in Orzammar, but my mother smuggled this out with her when my family left. It belonged to my great-great-great grandfather, but it’s been passed down to us through ten generations. Or so the story goes. You know how these things are.”

“My mother’s cloak worn by Hessarian himself, yes. I do.”

Dorian leaned in for a better look and frowned.

“It looks almost new, though.”

“Yeah. We’ve replaced the jewels, sharpened the blade until it had to be recast, reworked the silver. This dagger’s had a lot of work put into it over the years. For all the time spent on it, it’s held up pretty well, even with the faults and cracks it’s gotten.”

Closing the case, Varric patted the top.

“Might not be the same as before. Doesn’t mean you need to throw the whole thing out and start again.”

“Subtlety is wasted on you, I see,” Dorian responded. “From your books, I should’ve expected as much.”

Varric snorted.  

“Figured I had to lay it out for you. For you and Tiny being as smart as you are, sometimes you’re both really dense.”

He left Dorian in a stunned, slightly sheepish silence.

* * *

 

“So, what’s the plan you told Toril?”

The Iron Bull asked as they halted in front of the tunnel entrance while their fearless leader checked their inventory one last time.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

The Iron Bull listened. His voice turned to stone.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

He folded his arms.

“Explain to me how that keeps a horde of demons from coming down on your ass.” 

“I am a conduit, not a vessel. The safeguards in place will keep me from harm.”

“And you blindly assume every one of these spirits has your best interests at heart?”

“They are not demons. Hanging on weakened them substantially. Even if they got past the wards and my considerable, finely honed willpower, there would be nothing to gain from a few seconds of possession.”

“What’s to keep the other necromancer from having _his_ spirits possess you?”

Dorian held up a finger.

“Ah, but there’s the rub. His magic feeds off them, so he’s weakened them to a similar state. They would be so overwhelmed by the cacophony that is the five senses, they wouldn’t be able to get a toehold.”

The Iron Bull relented a little.

“You’re sure about this?”

“As sure as I can possibly be.”

Dorian stared up at the Dread helmet, shoulders tight.

“Do you trust me? Are you with me?” 

His chin was cupped in clawed gauntlets, the tips gently pricking the sides of his face.

“Kadan.”

The Iron Bull murmured, tilting his head and carefully kissing him through the mouth guard. Dorian tasted steel and blood, then he pulled away.

“I am always with you.”

“The things you say,” Dorian muttered weakly, then steeled himself for their descent.

“The Inquisition! At last!”

Their target’s voice echoed off of the walls of the tunnels.

“I had hoped you would come that I might deliver you to my master myself.”

The first wave of undead rapidly shuffled towards them.

“A whelp, two brutes, and a failed scion. What chance could you stand against me?”  

“Shame Harding and Dagna are missing this,” The Iron Bull said, decapitating a nearby corpse.

“We’ll have to tell them all about it,” Toril quipped, shooting an archer approaching Sera.

“I do hope you have considered the consequences of your actions. After all, had you not been so foolish and realized the power and honor this would bring to your house, you would have accepted without a second thought.”

The necromancer declaimed, lobbing a fireball at them.

“But you ran, Dorian Pavus!”

The party narrowly avoided the wall of fire that sprung up behind them.

“Like a coward, you refused to restore Tevinter to its former glory!”

Dorian squinted at the figure.

“Is that...can’t be.”

“What do you mean?”

Toril asked, shooting a corpse between the eyes.

“I know that voice from somewhere.”

“Your loss was my gain! A fine payment for maiming my person and my fortune so early in life.”

The other necromancer crowed gleefully, undeterred by their lack of acknowledgement.

Dorian narrowed his eyes.

“Maker, it _is_ him.”

Sera spat on the ground in front of them and shot another approaching corpse through the neck.

“Who’s this twat?”

“We met in the Carastrian Circle. He tried to insult my family, but my tongue was sharper. He challenged me to a duel after I brought up the rumors about his granduncle and the goats and I won. I was kicked out of the Circle shortly after, but considering he was thirteen and I was nine, the incident stuck.”

Toril raised her eyebrows.

“And this is all for you? That’s a little petty.”

“Have you met Vints, boss? It’s their national past time.”

The Bull said, swinging his axe down and cleaving an approaching undead soldier in half.

“Second only to perversion and blood magic, yes, but he’s only here to consolidate his power. If he really wanted to wreak vengeance upon me, he would’ve sent assassins. This is amateur hour.”  

Dorian rolled up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles.

“Cover me. I’ll handle him.”

He raised his voice, addressing the other necromancer for the first time.

“Tertius Asinorum! Your quarrel is with me!”

“Tertius of the jackasses,” the Bull clarified for Toril and Sera.

“Our first meeting in twenty-one years and already, you dare insult the proud house of Asinius!”

“Truth be told, after all this time, I don’t see a difference,” Dorian deadpanned.

To say Tertius roared with rage would credit him with a potency of presence he had never, ever in his life possessed. Still, his outburst of anger held the party’s attention, even if his undead army faltered.

“You hide your weaknesses behind insults! I have had a hand in every death in this land myself and used my noble art to its full potential while you seek solace in—"

“Enough!"

Dorian shouted.

“I will not see another innocent suffer at your hands!”

He slammed the end of his staff on the ground.

“Ave, di manes!”

“You deny your ancestors! They will not help you now.”

Dorian’s eyes gleamed.

“ _Oh_ , _you wish._ ”

He hit the ground with his staff again, gathering mana to him once more.

“Restless dead, hear me!”

The other enchanter’s eyes widened in horror. Incensed by his enemy’s recent regrets, Dorian’s anger grew. He slammed the staff down again, sparks flying as he whipped the matter of the Veil surrounding him into a frenzy.

“Restless dead, I call to you! This man forced you from the Veil to suffer for his own gains and those of his master that would rip the world as we know it asunder. I offer you vengeance for his cruel actions!”

Deep purple and black mana swept over the walls around them, covering the stone as it coiled in on the two necromancers. Imbued with power, the spirits surrounding them took shape, slowly filling the room. He could hear Sera yelp and stumble back as one of them materialized in full, surrounding the two necromancers in a circle. Tertius’s attempt at a barrier fizzled and sputtered out, overwhelmed by the flood.

“Restless dead, come to me! I offer you justice! His magic holds you here. If he dies, your bindings break with him, but that is beyond my power. Give me your strength to carry out his death sentence and free you from your chains!”

They flooded to him in droves, the deluge straining the limits of his mana. Behind him, The Iron Bull shouted his name in vain, his voice cracking. Eyes glowing purple and black, they spoke through Dorian’s mouth, old and young, every gender, and in multiple languages.

“What will my mother do—“

“I never told her I loved her—“

“My father could never run the farm without—“

“He met me by the old oak tree before I left and I didn’t kiss him—“

“I came so my sister could live—“

“My grandfather will never see me now—“

The deluge broke, Dorian gasping for breath.

“I know.”

He sobbed.  

“I know you are suffering, I know. I hear you. I am here for you. Let me be the instrument of your salvation and right the wrongs that you have been forced to endure.”

Dorian took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, they glowed with the fury of thousands of souls crying out for retribution.

He raised his arms and brought his staff down one last time. Tertius drowned, choking as his hands reached out in one last desperate attempt at self-preservation, but the spirits rushed over him, his screams barely audible as the black and deep purple mana covered him and sank.

The room emptied, leaving the party alone. They had not left even a single mark upon the floor. Dorian swayed back and forth, falling to his knees, and then into the welcome embrace of darkness.

* * *

 

Dorian woke to the sensation of being carried, stirring after being out for who knew how long. He could dimly hear Stitches beside him.

“Chief, he’s just mana depleted. You can let go of him.”

“…no.”

“He’s not going to fall apart if you put him down.”

“You say that now.”

At his exasperated sigh, Dorian opened his eyes.

“Amatus?”

The Iron Bull sagged with relief.

“You’re awake.”

He helped him sit up.

“Amatus, huh?”

Dorian smiled up at him.

“You’ve certainly earned it after all I’ve put you through.”

The Iron Bull’s grin threatened to split his face in half.

“I’ll gladly take it, kadan.”

“Did you know he wasn’t even the third son? Firstborn. They went and named him that anyway.”

“Your altus is showing,” Krem said wryly from behind them, putting a hand on Stitches’ shoulder.

“Come on, love. He doesn’t need anything more than water and rest and you’ve needled the chief long enough.”

“Yessir,” Stitches replied, kissing the back of his hand, then shooting the Bull one last look before they left. Dorian rested his head against his shoulder, still too tired to move. The Bull’s fingers carded through his hair.

"Bull?"

"Yes?"

“Do you still have the stone?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to put it on the lararium when we get back, if that’s all right. Unless you have somewhere better in mind?”

“Nah. I was thinking maybe the desk, but I don’t really have a mantelpiece.”

"We can tend it together. Or I could set up another altar for you."

Dorian frowned.

"I always have spare candles and water and there's a small cabinet in the room in the cellar that would--"

The Iron Bull kissed him, long and deep.

"Kadan."

He rumbled, kissing the side of his head.

"Rest. We have time."

Dorian hushed, taking his hand. They sat there in a companionable silence, the sounds from camp outside a calming backdrop.

"Do you think anyone will be coming to claim it?"

The Bull thought on it for a moment.

"I hope so. I think I'm ready."

He squeezed Dorian's hand.

"Together, right?"

"Together," Dorian agreed, and kissed him. "By all the gods above and below."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> First of all, I want to thank you for the honor of being your creative partner. You commented on my first Dinner fic and I have always remembered you fondly for it along with your top notch art. So when I got you, it took me a day or two to come down from that high. I'd written Adoribull as a side pairing, but this was my first time giving it the spotlight and despite having to break a lease and pick up a second job two weeks before the deadline, I'm very pleased with it. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank [GoldenThreads](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads) for her excellent Latin translations and helping me create a version of syncretized Andrastrianism in Tevinter that meshes with Roman polytheistic traditions in addition to her hilarious stories that I'm totally going to use. (Did you know there's an old British war goddess named Andraste?) I'd be remiss if I didn't thank my beta [InkSplatterM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSplatterM/pseuds/InkSplatterM) for her constant words of encouragement and helping fix some major oversights while reassuring me the bits I kept poking at were fine. 
> 
> So, onto some things you might have missed if you did not grow up in ancient Rome:  
> -Cinnamon and cassia was the incense you burned for the spirits of the dead, the di manes.  
> -Dorian's staff is made of cypress. Bodies would be placed on cypress branches before they were interred and they would also be carried as a sign of respect for the dead. A dead wood, if you will.  
> -This is a [lararium.](http://www.vroma.org/images/scaife_images/062b.jpg) Traditionally, most rituals in ancient Rome were public, but if you did want to hold a ritual or make your daily offerings to the spirits of the house and the pantry along with your ancestors, this was where you would do it. As far as I know, there were no versions of travel larariums, but you could easily jerry rig one out of a small cabinet, which is most likely what Dorian has done.  
> \- The penates are translated as 'the spirits of the pantry' and look after the items of your household, so Dorian has his birthright on the altar for them to protect, not as an offering.  
> -'Sit tibit terra levis' means 'may the earth lie lightly upon you'. That, along with all of the formal prayers Dorian says except for his welcome are taken from actual Roman epitaphs, which are beautifully poetic and philosophical and sad. I wrote the welcome myself and was told it was very accurate.  
> -As part of the Roman wedding ceremony, the groom would offer his bride the fire and water of his house to welcome her into their new home together. I had fun seeing how much I could sneak that in to emphasize just how married these nerds are.  
> -"By all the gods above and below" is......the last line, I think, of the Roman wedding ceremony. I thought that with all the religion this story dealt with that it would be a fitting last line. 
> 
> As for Bull's traditions, the aban barek, 'unchanging mountain' (my translation) was actually created by me. I'd originally created it for an unfinished OC Wintersend treat which I'll get around to one of these days and liked it so much I recycled it. I also came up with the weaving of the particular rope with that person's favorite tool because I remembered the quest where you had to collect the swords in DA2 and figured they wouldn't just leave them alone. I fooled with the canon prayers a bit because I wasn't very impressed with them. The Qun is essentially militarized Confucianism, but the story of Ashkaari Koslun and a fair bit of the philosophy is heavily influenced by Buddhism. So, the prayers Bull says over the body were heavily influenced by the Japanese version of the Heart Sutra, which I actually got to hear in person being recited several times when I visited temples while studying abroad twice in Japan. It was incredible, to say the least.
> 
> I also created the bits about Antivan poetry because I needed to give them a safe topic to argue about and it was influenced by an episode of Story Archaeology I was listening to on my way home from work. 
> 
> I wasn't able to fit many side pairings into this fic, but I assure you that Dalish and Skinner, everyone's favorite lesbians, are somewhere in the background happily dating and sticking it to the shemlen. This is set in the same universe as my Wintersend fic for last year, so that was what Bull was alluding to when he mentioned Dagna's and Harding's absences. Krem and Stitches are also together, and while I wasn't able to do as much with them as I would have liked, they have a whole story of their own if that pairing piqued your interest.
> 
> Thank you so much again for the honor of creating this piece for you! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it and I can't wait to ramble in the comments or on Tumblr.


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